


'tis my delight on a shining night in the season of the year

by Gwerfel



Series: Tozer and Fitzjames' long cold winter (feat. everybody else) [2]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Beechey, Explicit Sexual Content, Fitzjames In A Dress, Lads Lads Lads, M/M, Marine banter, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Canon, Rare Pairings, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, benjo time, bisexual tozer, good times all round
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:40:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23900971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gwerfel/pseuds/Gwerfel
Summary: The expedition is going extremely well for everyone, but especially for Tozer, who is having the night of his life at the Beechey Island New Year's benjo.
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Series: Tozer and Fitzjames' long cold winter (feat. everybody else) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704130
Comments: 20
Kudos: 41





	'tis my delight on a shining night in the season of the year

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2! Good vibes only, get mashed up with the boys.
> 
> Thank you to Kt_fairy for helping me make the sex scene two paragraphs longer, for listening to my every bitter complaint as I dithered over writing this, for fixing my weird phrasing and deftly caulking my haphazard boat knowledge. When we are finally reunited you are getting a spooning.

The bear - what is left of it, which is only the head and pelt - lies draped across the trestle table like a heathen centrepiece. The animal’s fur is still soft and white, tinged yellow by the lamps set about it and without so much as a trace of dried blood - the shot was a very clean one. 

Tozer and the marines of Terror take their seats at the head of the table, with Solomon himself in the place of honour. The scent of roasting meat fills the air, and he receives more than one congratulatory slap on the back from the rest of the crew as they trudge through the polar twilight to gather for the feast. He grins and shakes his head modestly, claiming that it was nothing at all, that felling white bears is no more than a day’s work to him - but as his first tot of rum hits his stomach he feels a hot streak of satisfaction rising upwards which borders on pride. 

Solomon has celebrated many Christmases and New Year’s eves at sea, aboard ships or in dockside taverns on strange shores, and while the rituals and festivities rarely change, the scenery has never been quite so striking as on Beechey Island. 

It is a barren place, apparently forgotten even by the  _ esquimaux _ who call this land home. Snow lies thick on the stoney ground, a seamless mantle which makes it almost impossible to distinguish the shore from the frozen sea, where Terror and Erebus wait, held fast in their winter harbour. They left the ships not long after midday, but the moon hangs heavy and bright in the clear sky, almost full, round enough to cast its wintry light over the snow, illuminating everything in a startling shade of blue. 

The notion of an open air celebration is supposedly for their health - most of the crew have spent the winter sweltering below decks, where the engines churn and rattle out scalding steam day and night, and they are beginning to feel the effects of it now. Tozer exercises his men every morning, but even they are showing more frequent signs of languor and dispiritedness. The hunting of the white bear could not have come at a better time, for it has lifted the mood of the marines considerably, and it is all they can talk about this evening.

“I heard Sergeant Bryant say the bear must have already been lame, or aging,” says Private Wilkes, “he said it must have been an easy shot.”

“Pay him no mind,” Heather replies, “the Erebites are only sorry they were not there.” 

Two days ago Tozer, Heather and Wilkes had been on duty on shore escorting Lieutenant Hodgson and Captain Crozier to the little wooden outhouse where they conduct their experiments. The bear had been sighted once or twice already since landing at Beechey, and every armed man on the expedition was keen to bring it down. The officers were inside the hut, and the marines milling about the perimeter. It was darker that night, the moon not so full as it is now, but the snow was so bright against the surrounding gloom that Heather saw it at a distance.

“Sergeant,” he murmured, nodding, and Tozer turned, saw it, aimed his rifle and fired. 

It was only a few moments' effort; over in the time it took to inhale and exhale. The bear fell at once with a heavy thud, and the clattering blast rang out across the entire shore, bringing the captain and the lieutenant running out to meet them. 

Crozier clapped him on the shoulder when they saw the beast lying still in the snow, “fine work, Sergeant Tozer. I commend you on your aim.”

Flushed with triumph, Tozer had helped carry the thing back to Terror, where they had been met with jubilant cheers and Heather had told the story over at least five times that night in the fo’c’sle. Solomon didn’t mind; he hadn’t the knack for telling tales, and he could not deny that he was pleased with himself. Plenty of seabirds were shot on the passage towards Greenland, but nothing would be able to top this for a while.

It hadn’t taken long for news to spread to Erebus, of course. By now a natural and healthy rivalry has formed between the two crews, and it is no secret that the Erebites are bitter in their jealousy, while the Terrors - who feel themselves the underdogs much of the time - are cocky about this small success. Heather will surely be telling the story again once the drinking begins in earnest. 

First, though, Sir John has a speech to make, for which every man must stand at attention. It is something to see all one hundred and twenty of them - excepting three men on the sick list and two of the doctors. Every man is wrapped up in his issued coat and slops, thick hats firmly pulled down over their welsh wigs, only the marines distinguished by their grey greatcoats and white crossbands. 

The long trestle tables hastily pulled together by Mr Honey and Mr Weekes are arranged in four parallel rows, with a fifth set perpendicular for the officers and the captains. Along with the candles, lanterns and clamouring roar of men preparing to make merry, the entire party has a baronial feel, increased by the raucous cheers as the roasted bear is finally brought out from Northumberland house. 

The officers of course have dressed themselves up for the evening in their very finest; they are pressed and polished and primped as though sitting down to dinner at court, rather than with a hundred coarse seamen. 

Commander Fitzjames - Tozer can think of his name now and see only the uniform - is looking as jovial as everybody else, listening to Sir John’s address and raising his cup with a ‘here, here!’ now and then. 

“...and of course we must raise a cheer for Sergeant Tozer,” Sir John extends his arm to the table the Terror marines are standing at, “the hero of the hour!” 

Cheers are duly raised and with all eyes turned towards him Tozer looks down, fixing his gaze on the bear spread out on the table as Heather and Wilkes jostle him with their elbows, laughing. The bear’s dead eyes stare back at him, milky and dull even in the twinkle of candlelight. Tozer saw a brown bear cub tied to a post at a fair once, but nothing could have prepared him for that creature. It was huge; it took all five of them to drag it back to the ship, and even then with great difficulty.

Now it lies like a trophy at his supper table, and as the men take their seats once more, plates of its roasted meat are finally shared about, savoury steam rising into the black Arctic air. Someone has forced an empty Goldner’s tin into its jaws like the apple in a roasting pig. Tozer hasn’t had anything to drink yet, but something about the sight of it troubles him. Still, once it is served, the meat is rich, tough and greasy, and as delicious as anything Tozer has eaten these past months.

“Bryant’s going to have all the marines on Erebus target shooting every morning, I heard,” Private Hedges says, through mouthfuls, “they plan to bring down the next bear.”

“Ha, now they know they’ve got something to prove,” Hammond sneers, raising his cup. There’s beer on offer tonight, and plenty of rum, Sir John has pulled out all of the stops.

“We ought to have a competition,” Wilkes pipes up, “show ‘em who the best shot is.”

The marines all nod and grunt in agreement as they dig into their plates. Tozer spies dark haired Tommy Armitage, the gunroom steward who has just returned from serving the warrant officers their meals and pouring their drinks. He’s a common sight at the marines table now, and they acknowledge him without fuss, shuffling along the bench to let him sit. He tilts his head as he eats to catch their conversation - he has a strange deformity on his left ear which was an injury, Tozer supposes. Armitage is quiet for this reason, and Tozer can’t help pitying him, for he clearly longs for company.

“You lot just mind your duty and keep your eyes peeled,” Tozer says, raising his voice to interrupt Wilkes and Hammonds’ plans for a pissing contest, “let the Erebites worry about themselves.” 

“Don’t care who gets the next one,” Heather says, just as loudly, spearing another hunk of meat on his fork and holding it up, “it’s bloody good.”

* * *

_ “As me and my companions were setting up a snare, _

_ The gamekeeper was watching us – for him we did not care, _

_ For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, and jump o'er anywhere…” _

It is reassuring to Tozer that no matter where you might find yourself in the world, drunk Englishmen are always the same. 

The feast has been devoured and the toasts drunk, and now every man is in his cups and spoiling for some excitement. Morfin leads the singing as the men push back the tables to clear space for a dancefloor, packing down the snow and then setting lanterns and candles all about it. It’s a poacher’s song, and the officers do not know the words, which is half of the fun for the men, who are rosy cheeked and glassy eyed already, raising their voices with ribald cries and whoops.

Once the wintry ballroom has been laid, with a tavern made up from the trestle tables and barrels of ale, the men gather around to watch the dancing begin. 

Commander Fitzjames surprises all assembled by appearing from the dark doorway of Northumberland House dressed in a ballgown, accompanied by Lieutenants Fairholme and Hodgson, also in ladies dresses. Their entrance is greeted with much laughter and cheering, followed by a shy sort of gallantry from some of the crew, who have not seen a woman in so many months now that the incongruous presence of skirts is enough to flummox them.

Though he does not plan to do any dancing himself, Tozer permits himself to note that the commander looks as well as he ever did in a dress, which is of a bright mustard shade that soaks up the lamplight. He has the same confident bearing as always, only with an added glint of fun in his eye, and kind of mischievous spring in his step as he approaches the centre of the floor. His welsh wig is pulled down over his hair, so there is no sign of his curls this evening, but the overall effect is still very agreeable.

The three ‘ladies’ are partnered with men of their own rank, and then Mr Reddington of Erebus takes up the fiddle, with Mr Thomas on his flute, and between the two of them they manage to crack out a very fine tune, even in the icy cold. Tozer watches amused as the officers begin their dancing. They are clumsy in their boots and woollens, and careful on the trodden snow, but their spirits are high and everyone claps along, which makes for very jolly entertainment.

The cask of rum is opened some way through the second dance, and from there on the night descends in the usual manner of sailors at leisure. Men who are fond of dancing take up their own places in the clearing, where they dance the hornpipe or jig without much care for figure or step. The boys begin a game of leapfrog, and Strong boasts that no man could best him at a wrestling match, for which he is roundly shouted down. 

Tozer settles himself on a bench with Heather to smoke and drink and watch the festivities. Armitage sits by too, leaning in to hear better over the din. In addition to the fiddle, the pipe and the singing, Sir John has allowed the use of his mechanical music player, and familiar music hall tunes now burst forth from the table behind them, reminding Solomon of Violet. 

“Will they let you have the pelt, Sergeant Tozer?” Armitage asks, when no one has spoken for a while.

“What would I do with it?” Tozer shrugs. “Hot enough below decks, isn’t it?” 

“Sell it?” Armitage muses, “swap it for something.”

“Take it home to your Vi,” Heather suggests, drinking deep. He’s on his third cup already, his cheeks are glowing. “Wedding present, eh?”

Solomon pockets away the image of Violet reclining on a bed of white fur, smiling up at him, and shakes his head, finishing his own drink.

“As I’ve said,” he replies, “we made no promises. I’ve no plans to wed.”

“Don’t know what you’re missing, young man,” Heather tuts, fiddling with his pipe, “nothing like having someone waiting for you.”

“Perhaps when I am as old as you,” Tozer glances at him sideways. 

Heather roars with laughter, embers spilling from the bowl of his pipe. 

There is a high pitched yelp from across the dancefloor, and everyone turns to see Davy Young’s legs flailing in the air from where he appears to have dived headlong into a snowdrift. Golding and Hickey pull him out by his ankles, and he reappears, coughing and laughing, caked in snow. 

“He’ll regret that,” Tozer comments, “catch his death in those wet things.”

“They’re enjoying themselves,” Heather tilts his head, puffing away. 

“Fill your cup for you, Sergeant Tozer?” Armitage asks, standing up. 

“I’ll come with you, Tommy,” Solomon gets to his feet as well. Watching all of the activity has spurred a restlessness in him; perhaps he will have a go at wrestling Strong after all. 

They leave Heather contentedly humming along to one of the several tunes on offer, and go to get a top up from the cask of rum which the boatswain, John Lane, is presiding over. 

“Did Wilkes say you would be having target practices?” Armitage asks as they wait for their turn. 

“Can’t hurt,” Tozer answers, certain already where this is leading. “Likely to be more bears, and you saw the size of that one.”

“You got it, though, Sergeant.”

“I had a lucky shot.”

“If there are target practices, do you think I could watch? I’d like to learn, if I can.”

Tozer looks down at him. Armitage wanted to join the marines, he’d confided in Tozer some months ago that he’d been refused on account of his bad ear. He’s an experienced seaman, but his hearing causes problems often; Solomon is willing to bet it’s how gruff, unpolished Tommy ended up a steward. Much easier to hear an order in the quiet gunroom than belted out across a weatherdeck.

“If it doesn’t interfere with your duties,” Tozer replies carefully, “you know it’s not up to me.”

Armitage nods, a determined expression on his face as he turns quiet again. Tommy’s silences are often mistaken for stupidity, but Solomon finds him pleasant enough company. It is not easy to distinguish yourself on a crew of lively and hot headed sailors, and some find it easiest to keep their heads down. 

“Having a dance, Tommy?” Solomon kicks Armitage’s boot lightly to shake him out of his stern mood. The steward grins bashfully, shaking his head.

“Not me. Mam always said I hardly knew my left from my right.”

“Sergeant Tozer!” A voice interrupts them, ringing like a silver bell. They both turn to see Lieutenant Le Vesconte strolling across the snow towards them, his tankard raised high in salutation, “our very own Orion!”

“Good evening, sir,” Tozer calls back, “and happy New Year.”

“A very merry New Year to you, Sergeant!” Le Vesconte beams at him, grasping his hand and shaking it vigorously. “What a feast!”

Solomon cannot help but smile, and hopes he isn’t coming over too familiar. 

“Quite the celebration, eh? Just imagine how it will be once we complete the passage - we’ll have three days of dancing, I wager!”

“That would be something, sir.”

“I say it would! Are you gentlemen dancing?”

“Perhaps later, sir,” Tozer replies on Armitage’s behalf - who has been struck entirely dumb by the garrulous lieutenant. The last man in front of the cask moves away, and they move forward to furnish themselves with a drink..

“Ah, of course,” Le Vesconte nods vigorously, “bit of dutch courage! Quite right, Sergeant. Now, I am of the mind to have a game of ‘buffet the bear’ - spread the word, will you boys?”

“Yes, sir,” Tozer agrees, and with that, Le Vesconte whirls away in search of another hapless victim. As he passes back across the now rather chaotic dancefloor, Solomon catches a flash of yellow silk, and quickly looks away.

They fill their tankards and return to Heather, who is somehow drunker still, and now talking Wilkes’ ear off about angling. 

“It’s all in the bait, y’see,” he slurs, slapping Wilkes’ thigh, “them who say you don’t need maggots for it are  _ lying _ , it’s the best thing - live and squirming, you want them.”

“Not this again,” Tozer says loudly, to rescue Wilkes, who is nodding along, but would clearly prefer to be joining the rest of the fun.

“A man has to have a pastime, young Tozer,” Heather shakes his pipe, “especially if he won’t take a wife.”

“Hobbies  _ are _ for men with wives,” Tozer returns, quickly, “when I’m on land it isn't fish I’m looking to catch.”

That sends Armitage and Wilkes laughing, and Heather mumbling into his tankard. 

“Tell you what,” Wilkes quips, “from a distance Lieutenant Fairholme doesn’t look half bad.”

The four of them peer across the dancefloor, chuckling guiltily, “You’ve been away from home too long, Private,” Tozer advises. 

“Just think of the native girls in the Sandwich Islands,” Wilkes says, dreamily, “Hammond says they don’t wear no clothes - no slips nor petticoats or  _ nothing _ . Think about it every night, I do.”

“I know it,” Heather snorts, “I sleep beside you.”

“Tell you what, Heather,” Wilkes says, grinning, “give it another six months and I’ll start thinking of you, I’m that hard up.”

Armitage snorts and Heather howls, and Solomon tries not to let his gaze wander back to the dancing. He has been on enough long voyages now to have built up the knack for ignoring certain appetites - a few occasions on previous ships he has found himself a pal to go below with, or else just dealt with it at night in the silence of the fo’c’sle or in the heads like everybody else did. He’s been more careful of it on this expedition than others, and so far has found plenty else to distract him from that interminable itch.

Tonight, with everybody at ease and a victory on his shoulders, rum and red meat in his belly, Solomon feels the insistent tug of wanting more sharply than usual. There is nothing to be done about it, not until the night is over, at least. He drinks deeply. 

Now that talk has turned that way, there is no stopping them. Wilkes’ tropical fantasy is added to by seamen who overhear, now loudly recalling their amorous adventures with bawdy gusto, conjuring up impossibly beautiful doxies, foreign girls in distant ports, sweet village girls from back home writhing in haylofts.

“My Flossie,” Heather mumbles at Solomon’s shoulder, his head nodding now, “my Flossie, what a fine woman. The dearest soul I ever met. She could take the stars down and bake them in a pie.”

Caught between frustrated desire and melancholy, Solomon decides to stretch his legs. Perhaps he will join in with the game of buffet the bear; getting roughed about a bit begins to feel like exactly what he’d like.

He wipes his moustache with the back of his sleeve, “well,” he says to his companions, staggering to his feet, “I’m off for a piss.”

* * *

_ “...She was both fair and handsome, _

_ Her neck it was just like a swan, _

_ And her hair it hung over her shoulder, _

_ Tied up with a black velvet band….” _

Solomon grins drunkenly to no one but himself and hums along with the tune as he trudges back from behind a snowbank to rejoin the fun, eyes on the snow in front of him so he will not slip, he treads in his own footprints, skirting the perimeter of the party out of vague habit.

“Ahoy there, Sergeant,” a cheery voice calls out to him as he passes the dancing on his way back towards the makeshift pub, where Mr Blanky now appears to be holding court with more of his whaling stories. 

Tozer stops and turns to see the commander in his yellow gown, raising a lamp in one hand and with a smile on his face that reassures Solomon he’s not the only man who has over-imbibed. He touches his forelock, “Commander Fitzjames.”

The commander approaches him, his skirts sweeping over the trampled snow. It is a good thing he’s tall, Tozer thinks, otherwise his hem would be soaked through by now. 

“I have not yet congratulated you on your conquest,” he says amiably, his voice a little too loud, cheeks pinched red. “The founder of the feast!” He slaps Tozer’s arm manfully, and Tozer manages to stay upright, grinning back.

“It was Terror’s victory, sir, and Heather who first spied the bear.”

“But you fired the killing shot,” the commander insists.

“Aye, sir,” Tozer nods, still pleased with himself, “that I did. I hope you are not out of pocket on my account.”

“What’s that?”

“The bet, sir, you mentioned in Greenhithe. Which ship might bring down the first white bear.”

“Ah!” The commander’s eyes widen with a pleasant sort of surprise, “quite right - I believe I owe Lieutenant Hodgson a crown. Be awfully decent if you kept that to yourself, I think he has forgotten.”

They both glance across the glimmering snow, where Hodgson is dancing a tumultuous polka with Lieutenant Gore. Tozer is not familiar with ballroom society, but even he can see they are both making a poor show of it, to the amusement of everyone - even Captain Crozier. 

“I shan’t say a word, sir,” Solomon replies, watching Hodgson slip and skid on the ice, almost taking Gore down with him. 

“Good man,” the commander nods. 

They stand a few moments longer watching the dancing, which has grown less and less genteel as the night wears on, and is now much more like the country jigs and reels Tozer remembers from his childhood. He waits for the commander to leave, or dismiss him, but nothing comes.

“Where was it you shot the bear, Sergeant?”

Tozer turns slowly to peer out at the darkening wastes of Beechey Island, frowning a little at the way the ground has begun to tip, the horizon blurring and warping strangely - if he drinks any more he will regret it tomorrow. 

"Just there,” he gestures broadly, “quarter of a mile out, I’d say. Just behind the little hut you have out there for… for your work." He has yet to take much interest in the scientific occupations of the expedition, and feels foolish about it now.

"Little hut?!” The commander shakes his head, “Sergeant Tozer, I will have you know  _ that _ is an observatory!" He looks so comical in his skirts and stays with an indignant hand on his hip, Solomon snorts with laughter.

"Well then. I do beg your pardon, madam,” he replies. 

The commander raises an eyebrow. The otherworldly blue light which gleams off the ice and the snow makes the commander’s skin glow like pale marble, and turns his eyes as black as coal.

"Perhaps a lesson in magnetism is in order."

"I really haven't the head for figures, sir." Solomon chances a salacious look, taking the commander in slowly from head to toe. "Not that kind, any way."

"I'm sure we could find common ground." The commander returns the look, and Solomon feels an old familiar twitch. 

They’re both being far too bold; it is all down to the loose atmosphere, but Tozer has never been a man to deny himself anything, and if they are both in agreement, then - this being a holiday, after all - he does not think it can do much harm. Besides, his blood is up, he hasn't had so much to drink since he was last ashore, and it rushes through him now; every limb resonates with the craving.

“I could show you just where the bear fell, Commander,” he says, “if you’d like to come with me?”

“Lead the way, Sergeant,” Fitzjames replies at once, and with such earnest bravado that for a moment Solomon is not sure they are both aligned in their thinking.

It is strange to turn their backs on the warm amber glow of the party, with its noise and joyful music. They advance together into the deep blue landscape, where colours flatten and nothing but the black shape of the little observation hut stands out against the snow. It feels as though they are walking into silence - into a place quite separate from everything and everyone else. 

“Magnetism, then, sir?” Tozer says to disrupt the quiet. His breath turns icy white in the air as they approach the hut.

"Ah, yes,” the commander pants beside him, his billowing skirts catching in the chill wind and slowing their progress, the oil lamp he carries rattling. “Well, the general principle is that opposites attract. The two poles of the earth pull towards each other."

“Is that right?” Tozer huffs, not bothering to keep the smirk from his face. 

They reach the observatory and he leads the commander behind it, “it was just there,” he points at the spot where the bear fell. The blood has been covered over by fresh snow; it looks as if no one has ever been here at all.

“And you were standing here?” The commander asks, glancing back at the distant celebrations. Tozer steps back again, so that he is standing directly behind the hut with no view of the party at all.

“It was just here.”

The commander meets his eye, and follows him into the shadow of the hut. He stands a little closer, the lamplight between them illuminating his face and blackening the emptiness beyond. His eyes are burning with the same desire Tozer feels, and the four years since they were last in Portsmouth together vanish as quick as a gunshot. 

“If we went inside,” the commander nods at the door to the shed, “I could show you more - about magnetism.”

Unable to curb it any longer, Solomon grasps him at the shoulder, and pulls the commander to him for a kiss. His lips are cold but his mouth is burning hot, and as Tozer fumbles behind himself with the door, he is taken by surprise by the way the commander returns his passion with equal fire, his gloved hands gripping at Solomon’s waist.

The door bursts open and they stumble inside together. It’s a tight space, but room enough for two. Tozer hasn’t much opportunity to look around; the commander sets down the lamp with a clang and continues his voracious assault, his brandied tongue curling against Solomon’s, his thigh pushing between his legs.

"Steady, commander," Tozer gasps, pulling free to catch his breath and close the door behind them.

"Ah - forgive me if I seem overeager," the commander wipes his lips, which are red and shining. His wig has been knocked askew, locks of dark hair fall loose about his flushed cheeks. Solomon would forgive him anything, looking like that.

"Not complaining,” he chuckles, pulling off his gloves with his teeth - exposing himself to the cold is a risk, but so is buggering a commander, and if he’s going to do it then he’d at least like to touch him with his own bare hands. “Been a few months for us both, I reckon,” he offers.

"Rather longer for me," the commander says dryly, following suit with his own gloves.

"No sport in China?" Solomon steps forward to brush some hair away from the commander's face.

"None anywhere," the commander gives a rather rueful laugh. "Not since… Well, since that summer in Portsmouth."

"Fucking  _ hell _ ," Tozer blinks, gripping his shoulders in amazement. Such self control is beyond his own sense of reason.

"Yes,  _ thank _ you, Sergeant," the commander gives him a look which is half sharp admonishment, half wounded pride. Solomon kisses it away, at once - on his mouth, then his jaw, his neck, loosening his scarf to get at the warmest stretch of skin.

"I should say you'll thank me. Christ."

There is a stack of boxes piled up to form a kind of work bench; Tozer imagines it is meant for making notes and preparing equipment, but it’s sturdy enough for their needs tonight. The commander backs against it, his hands on Tozer’s chest, fingers curling around his crossband. 

Solomon is in no rush yet. Having now learnt of the commander’s long abstinence, it becomes a matter of pride as well as one of desire, and he takes the time to kiss the commander thoroughly before venturing further. After all, he supposes, knowing all they do about one another, the commander must have anticipated - maybe even  _ wanted _ \- a good long spooning before getting down to it. He certainly makes no attempts to hurry Tozer along.

There are layers and layers of wool and felt and linen between them both, not to mention silk, and as excitement mounts they push and strain against each other fiercely, shifting continuously in search of sufficient pressure, but it's a thankless exercise. When Solomon feels the commander fumbling with the fastenings of his coat he too gives in and begins to haul up the heavy skirts. 

The silk is of poor quality and worn very thin in places, patched over in others, and it smells strongly of whale oil and coal - but it still falls the same as that first red dress, still slides through Tozer's fingers like cool river water.

The pile of mustard coloured fabric now piled up between them, Solomon’s chilled hands search underneath, and he makes a noise of surprise.

“You’ve trousers on as well!”

“Well what do you expect? I’m not a lunatic, it is winter in the Arctic. You’ll just have to cling to the illusion, Sergeant,” the commander laughs, beginning to unbutton Tozer's breeches. 

His fingers are shockingly cold inside Solomon's clothes, but he finds himself grateful for the distraction, which allows him a moment or two to bring himself under control. Working at the commander’s trousers now, Tozer finds his stiff prick and gives it a firm squeeze, drawing a quivering sigh from his lover which is so dear and so well known to him that it brings Solomon back to the very edge of arousal.

“Would you --” the officer whispers, pulling away, “--that is, could we…?”

Solomon casts about, “yes, but I haven’t anything to--” 

“Here,” his commander snatches his wrist and brings it up to his face, drawing two of Tozer’s fingers into his mouth. His tongue is hot, wet and insistent, Solomon feels a raging in his groin as his fingers are made slick enough.

“There,” the commander gasps, releasing his hand, “now, if you would…” he hoiks up his skirts again, turning around to brace himself against the stack of boxes. 

Tozer moves quickly, aware his fingers are already growing cold, and begins to press them carefully between the commander's legs. As he does, he grips the commander’s hip with his other hand, pulling up his shirt and eliciting a shudder as he lays his cool palm against his belly. He feels different than Solomon remembers, his muscles ropier, drawn tighter perhaps. Still, the way he moans and pushes back against Solomon's prying fingers is wholly and blissfully familiar, and Tozer's prick throbs harder in desperate anticipation.

The commander shifts himself, parting his thighs further and bending forward to better admit Tozer. “God, please --”

"Now?" Solomon rasps, hopefully.

"Yes, now," the commander's head bobs forward, he arches his back.

Tozer withdraws his fingers with care, then hurries with his breeches. Almost as an afterthought, he reaches for the lamp, flicks open the latch and dips his fingers into the reservoir, using the blood hot oil to quickly grease his length before taking the commander at the waist again and thrusting into him.

“Christ!” The commander cries hoarsely, pushing himself up on the balls of his feet as Tozer drives into him and they fit tight together.

It would be sentimental to call it a homecoming, thinks Solomon as he exhales, warm enjoyment growing in every region. It is a blessing to know another's body as well as they know each others', and more than anything the direction this night has taken feels like an extension of his recent good fortune; a natural compliment to the celebratory mood of the evening.

They begin slowly, their hips rolling and grinding into each other, each greedily seeking his own pleasure. The crushing heat between them expands and throbs, Tozer can feel it sharpening in his gut as the commander arches again, darts of arousal pricking at him until he is so drunk with it he is sure he can see stars in the blackness of the hut. 

Every memory of the officer pours down on him at once, flashes of soft honeyed skin, the suffocating heat of that attic room, the garish roses on the wallpaper. He recalls things he had long forgotten; the soot in the fireplace and the way the bedsprings poked, the officer's urgent, breathless groans when Tozer angled his hips a particular way.

He tries this now, and the commander fairly yelps, leaning further forward onto the crate tops. Still clutching him at the waist as their pace increases, Solomon slips his hand down to stroke the commander's cock again, his knuckles chafing against the rough sack cloth petticoats as he squeezes and pulls. When he feels the prick in his hand begin to swell and tauten in his grip, Solomon bends his head to kiss the commander’s neck again,

"There, my dear lieutenant," he whispers against his ear, and with a hiccuping moan the commander spends, bucking his hips back with keen energy.

“Fuck!”

Prick deep and still in search of his own release, Tozer grits his teeth and groans, "should I--?" 

"Don't stop!" The commander gasps, raising his head and steadying himself against the creaking crates, "finish!" 

Solomon hasn't the willpower to refuse; he buries his face against the officer's warm neck once more and fucks him in earnest. 

With each thrust the blazing knot of heat in his belly pulls tighter and tighter, a searing hot wire which threatens to snap apart at any moment. The commander curses into his sleeve, murmuring feverish encouragement as Tozer rides him hard, setting a rough pace in pursuit of his crisis. Solomon squeezes his eyes shut as the heat intensifies and the wire snaps, exploding inside him and sending sharp dazzling shocks through his belly, he spills into the commander with an exultant roar.

The moments which follow are like wading through warm water; slow, soft and languid. Solomon is filled with the particular sense of peace and satisfaction which can only be brought on by a good and proper fucking. He lays almost fully against the commander, who sags forward on the pile of boxes, and wraps his arms tight about him, kissing his neck and ear once more in fond appreciation. 

When he finally opens his eyes, he sees their ghostly breath rising up through the air, thick and white as cannon smoke.

They finally pull apart and the cold invades at once, the heat produced by their lovemaking evaporating into the frigid dark. Tozer fastens his breeches quickly and fumbles about for his gloves. 

The commander turns around gingerly and fixes the buckles of his braces without tucking in his shirt, then yanks down his woollens before rearranging his skirts smoothly over the top. Once he is back to order, he catches Tozer's eye again, and without warning leans forward and kisses him, long and hard, a hand on his cheek.

When the commander releases him his eyes are shining, and his cheeks flushed with joyful exertion. He exhales shakily, "that was…" 

"It was," Solomon agrees with a smile. "But we’d best get back now, sir."

They leave the observatory as they found it, and find that it has begun to snow while they were inside. Great drifts pour down from the eternally darkened sky, and the moon above has a silver halo around it.

"What a place to find ourselves, eh?" Fitzjames says thoughtfully as they stroll back.

“Like the ends of the earth,” Tozer affIrms.

“Hard not to long for England, on a night like this,” the commander says with an almost melancholy sigh. He must still be drunk, Tozer thinks, and endeavours to steer the conversation away. 

“Mm. I sometimes still think about that bed of yours, back in Portsmouth.”

“Good lord, why?” The commander laughs, shooting him a glance. 

Tozer shrugs, “never did it in a bed before. Not with a man.”

“Oh, I see… no, nor I, now you mention it.”

The puddle of yellow light from the festivities reaches them again, they are like dreamers awakening. 

“Congratulations again, Sergeant,” the commander turns to him, his voice raised once more over the strident singing of the men, “on your success. Do try to give someone else a chance at glory, eh? I must say we were all green-eyed on Erebus when we heard.”

“Bryant wants another chance to prove himself. The marines are asking for a shooting tournament,” Solomon says, glancing over at the tables which make up the queer Arctic tavern. He would like another drink now, and a good long smoke. He hopes Heather is not too far gone. 

“Well, we might just have to before we leave Beechey, eh?” The commander replies, his own eyes wandering back to the dancing. Le Vesconte seems to have found enough men for his game; Mr Collins is on all fours, his head bent low and making all sorts of strange snarling sounds as the crew swipe at him with their hats, all laughing riotously. 

"I know my men are up to it, sir." Tozer raises his head and straightens his back.

The commander smiles at him again, and gives him a curt parting nod, “my money is on you this time, Sergeant.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Songs!:  
> \- The Lincolnshire Poacher  
> \- Black Velvet Band  
> \- Amen - Jolie Holland  
> \- Seeing other people - Belle & Sebastian


End file.
